A/N: It has been a terribly long time since I wrote anything, so forgive me if this isn't up to scratch. If there are any spelling/grammatical, please forgive those too. It came out more 'dim glow in dark room' than I'd anticipated, but it works (I think) and it'll—hopefully—get better as my writing improves. Bear with me, please?

Anyway, things to note: the age difference between these two is greater (5-6 years, I guess). And that's about it.

It took me almost two weeks to write this. So, I'm not promising a quick update (I plan on writing 3 chapters for this one). The pacing feels kind of weird to me, but whatever. Hope you liked that, though. Let me know what you think. Reviews are always welcome.

Nijimura Shūzō is no stranger to making the occasional bad decision when it comes to his personal life. Like the time he decided to get completely sloshed on a weekday after a particularly ugly break up with a girl he hadn't really liked to begin with. Saying yes to her confession had been another example of his poor judgement. There was also that time when, on a whim, he'd confessed to being in love with his friend—Himuro Tatsuya—after the latter had had a nasty fallout with his 'brother'. Tatsuya hadn't spoken to him for weeks afterwards, not because he was disgusted, mind you (Tatsuya was know to be non-discriminatory with his affection), but rather because of the timing.

Their friendship has gradually returned to normal, aside from Tatsuya's insistence on Shūzō finding a 'special someone'. A nice way of him saying 'let's just stay friends, huh?'.

It was a result of Tatsuya's subtle manipulation, and his own inability to think straight after a particularly gruelling week at work, that he'd accepted his friend's invitation to a night out on the town. And not just any part of town—Tatsuya's too cool for karaoke bars and quiet evenings. Shūzō studied the crowd of fresh-faced college students as they all moved, almost as one being, to the heavy bass of music screaming from the speakers. He slowly turns to his friend, levelling him with a look that reads you aren't serious.

He hadn't been to a club like this in years; not since he was at university. And even then, he'd never quite enjoyed them. The volume of the music pounding against his skull. The smell of beer, sweat, and people. The muddiness caused by a crowd of people constantly pushing you this way and that, sticky and hot. He was not about to subject himself to that.

As though reading his mind, Tatsuya grabs his arm before he can manoeuvre himself to face the entrance, and pulls in close enough to say—shout, really—into his ear, "relax! It'll be fun."

Shūzō's shaking his head even as Tatsuya drags him into the crowd, making him lose sense of direction. Like being dropped the middle of an ocean. Damn him. Tatsuya turns, lips curled up in an almost-grin, a smile lighting up the eye Shūzō can see. Gotcha is what that expression says, and he feels his shoulders slump in resignation as he gets dragged through the crowd. Girls stare as the pair push past, guys too. He has that affect on people, Shūzō thinks of his friend as they make their way to the back of the club, up a flight of stairs and through a red, velvet rope guarded by a mean-looking brute whose face looks like it would be at home on those Wanted posters he remembers seeing in movies back in America.

Upstairs, it's quieter, less crowded, more lounge-like and chic. VIP section. A guy walks up to them, blonde and brilliant—obviously rich, clearly famous; Nijimura has seen him somewhere. And just like that, discomfort hits him like a tidal wave. This is not his scene. This is not his crowd. This wasn't such a great idea, he realises about five seconds before noting that most of the people in the room are young. Like, really young. Barely-out-of-their-teens young. He bites back a groan and tries not scowl as Tatsuya introduces him to the host of this little shindig.

An hour or so later—Shūzō isn't entirely aware of the time—he's sitting at the private bar in the corner of the room staring at a beer he's been nursing for far too long. It's probably warm and tasteless. Pushing the glass away, he sighs, wondering if it's still too early to make a graceful exit. Tatsuya abandoned him some time ago, with a shrug of the shoulder and an order to 'have fun'. So he'd found himself a seat at the bar, and ordered a beer. His demeanour had done him the favour of scaring off anyone that may have been interested in small talk or whatever it was kids did these days.

He isn't anti-social, nor is he shy. He just isn't comfortable with the situation; this mingling thing just wasn't his thing. Too much guess work, too much room for error. Lead people, he could do. Charm them, he could not. Not intentionally, anyway.

Shūzō's just about to call it a night when someone wafts over, quiet and composed, young yet well put together. Shūzō looks at the kid, who's decided to take the seat right next to his—making it impossible to leave without looking like a jerk. He feels like he should know this person. Recognition, however, sits just beyond the reach of his exhausted mind as the kid stares at him with far too much intensity. He should leave.

And he's about to when his unwanted companion speaks, saying, "leaving already." It isn't posed as a question, as he pointedly stares at Shūzō's abandoned drink.

"Yeah," he replies, giving the boy a quick once-over without being too obvious in his scrutiny. "This isn't really my scene."

To be honest, this guy looks as out of place as Shūzō. Sure, he's dressed in designer clothes, and he barely looks old enough to be out of high school. Rich and young, like pretty much everyone else in the room. But there's something distinctly different about the boy—Shūzō can't bring himself to call the other a man. Noble, almost. He's beautiful, in a guy's sort of way. Not like Himuro, whose all smoke and mysterious allure, but, rather, more conspicuous; with deeply ingrained aristocratic features and mannerisms. Far beyond Shūzō's reach, but not really his type, anyway. He's struck with that sense of familiarity again, but pushes it away in favour of making a show of his intention to leave.

"A shame," the kid says, voice soft and coy, staring at Shūzō like he's been waiting the whole evening to strike up a conversation. Highly unlikely, but it's always nice to imagine these things. "With good enough company, the setting is of no consequence." The kid smiles then; almost sweet. Certainly victorious.

It's bait, Shūzō knows this. He's witnessed Tatsuya doing the same thing more times than he can remember. Even so, he straightens and looks at his uninvited companion. "Really?" he asks, intrigued. Caught.

In retrospect, this was his first bad decision in a string of many to follow.

Shūzō wakes to the sound of someone moving around in his kitchen, uncaring of the amount of noise they make. He sighs, turning over to force himself back to sleep, but it's futile. He's up and shuffling out of his tiny bedroom and into the hallway that leads to his kitchen-slash-living area. His apartment is small, but neat. And it's in a prime location—safe, trendy neighbourhood, and close to the station—making it ridiculously over-priced.

He's hit with the glorious scent of good coffee before he even reaches the kitchen. Tatsuya's rummaging in his cabinets, searching for mugs, presumably. His friend turns, hair falling over his left eye as he offers a barely-there smile. He's wearing a pair of well-worn sweatpants and a sightly oversized T-shirt. "Morning," he says, completely unashamed about being caught in someone else's kitchen first thing in the morning.

Shūzō had had second thoughts about giving Tatsuya the spare keys to his place. Rightfully so.

"How many times must I tell you not to touch my good coffee?" His heart's not in it, though. It's too early for this. Coffee first. He sighs, walking past his friend to grab the mugs Tatsuya was looking for. He then parks himself in front of the coffee machine; possibly the most expensive appliance he owns—that's how much he believes in good coffee.

Tatsuya leans against the counter, eyeing him with questions in his visible eye. He grins and says, "well, I thought you'd want to break out the good stuff to impress your guest."

"Wha—" is Shūzō's intelligible response.

"The little redhead? I saw you two leave together last night."

"Oh. Right."

"Yeah..." Shūzō eyes his friend with a wary, sidelong glance. There are so many facets of Tatsuya hidden beneath that too-cool-to-bear exterior. He shrugs though and returns his attention to the coffee as it filters into the glass pot. Black gold.

"Nothing happened," he says to the pot, as the last drops fall. "We left together. He caught a cab, and I came home."

"You're so lame," says Tatsuya, flat and unapologetic. Shūzō shrugs and, after pouring each of them a cup, they move to the small living room. The curtains are still drawn, but the sun glows behind them, painting everything in muted yellows. They sip their drinks in silence, waiting each other out. He looks up to see Tatsuya staring at him over to the rim of his mug, trying to coax something out of him. He waits, lest he gives away too much. Like the fact that meeting the redhead had been last night's only redeeming quality. Or that, after at least an hour of making small talk—mocking fellow guests, and scraping only the surface of their own lives—Shūzō had only garnered that the redhead was a university student who liked playing shogi. Pitiful spoils, but he'd never been great with flirting, and the like.

"At least tell me you got a number," Tatsuya sighs, sounding exasperated.

"Well... Not exactly. I—"

"You're hopeless, Shuu"

"He's got mine," Shūzō continues, glaring at his friend over those less-than kind words, only vaguely questioning his reasoning for giving away his number to someone whose name he didn't even know. "Not that I expect him to call; I don't think I'm his type. He's not mine, to be very honest."

"I suppose it's just as well." Tatsuya's tone is dismissive, tinged with disappointment, like he'd just lost a bet or something. "I doubt your boss would take kindly to that."

"Why's that?"

An eyebrow raises as Tatsuya searches his face. "You're kidding, right?" is what he says when he doesn't find what he's looking for.

Shūzō shrugs to say about what?, once again feeling like he's missing something about what his friend's saying, about the boy he met last night.

"Think Shūzō. Just how many naturally red-haired, filthy-rich, Japanese folk do you know of?"

After some thought, he feels his eyes go wide as the pieces slot together. God, he's such a dunce sometimes. He hears his friend chuckle, mockingly, but doesn't have the sense to be offended. His mind is racing through his memories in a desperate attempt to remember what he'd said about the company the boy's family owned. Had he complained? Insulted? Did it even really matter? The kid was only in university, and it was highly likely that he'd come across people that had had far worse things to say about his family's company.

"Can't blame you, though," Tatsuya says, slowly. "He's a lot better looking than his old man. Probably gets it from his mom."

"I guess."

Silence falls, comfortable and familiar. A sliver of sunlight pierces through an opening between the curtains. Shūzō watches dust motes dance in and out of the light, not really thinking of anything anymore. Soon, he'll get up from the couch, kick Tatsuya out of his house, do some laundry, go grocery shopping. Maybe he'll call home in the afternoon. Tatsuya will come over again and they'll go down to the basketball courts, pretend they're still young and carefree. He'll come home, eat, sleep and go to work tomorrow. Same old thing. Nothing ever changes, he thinks.

"What will you do when he calls?" He's not looking at Tatsuya when his friend asks this, but he can hear the smile in those words.

"If he calls," Shūzō corrects.

"Oh, he'll call," Tatsuya says, confidence and amusement laced into his voice. "He may be an Akashi—all hail—but he's still a kid. And I saw the way he was looking at you. He'll call. What will you do?"

"I don't know, Tatsuya," he replies, tired and annoyed at the tiny flutter in his chest at the possibility his friend is spinning him. Shit like that only happens in the movies. "I'll say 'hi'."

"Yo," is what Shūzō says when answering a call from an unknown number, two days after his conversation with Tatsuya. The voice that responds with a polite 'hello' is as recognisable as it is unexpected—all silken honey and long-standing authority. Without thinking about it, Shūzō was sitting straighter, taller, all his senses trained to the voice on the other side of the line. Perhaps it was the recently acquired realisation that the boy he'd talked with, sort of laughed with, hurled secret insults at unsuspecting guests with on Saturday was Akashi Seijūrō. Of the Akashi family, owners of the conglomerate that had recently bought the relatively small IT company he worked for.

Effectively, the kid was his boss. Or would become his boss some time in the near future. He remembers telling Akashi a little about his job and his company, but the redhead hadn't had any reaction to that news. The acquisition had probably been that insignificant. But now, in this moment in time, he feels his heartbeat accelerate, his eyes unconsciously scan the open-plan office space, as though he is about to do something against company policy. A dismissible offence.

"This is a surprise," he says, his voice sounding wooden to his own ears; hardly the smooth nonchalance he had been aiming for.

"I did say I'd call," Akashi answered. Shūzō could hear the slightest hint of a smile in the redhead's voice.

"Yeah, well. After I realised who you are, I really didn't think... you would." That came out wrong, Shūzō realises as soon as the last word leaves his lips. He could kick himself, really, but instead he flails about for a second before—

"I'm a man of my word, regardless of what my family name is." The reply is cold and edged with broken glass, years of bitterness and anger, and laced through with the slightest hint of hurt. Shūzō's ashamed, for a breath, for judging this boy without truly knowing anything about him. This hasn't been a great start to their conversation.

"I don't think you have any right calling yourself a man, kid," he says after a while, trying to steer their sinking ship of a conversation onto safer waters. "Being so small and pretty, you know."

"I'm twenty years old, I'll have you know. I don't appreciate you calling me a child." Akashi's tone is flat, unimpressed and petulant. Very endearing. Shūzō screws his face up at the thought.

He clears his throat and asks, "so... what's up?"

"I wanted to invite you out for drinks this weekend."

Shūzō could almost feel the ground shake beneath him, a warning to be wary. He had no business associating with the likes of Akashi; not now, or ever probably. He was hardly averse to the idea of being with a guy—his attraction to Tatsuya had been a testament to that, and had opened up a whole other world to him. But he'd never really thrown himself out there, with a guy. Least of all with someone who outranked in the unspoken societal structure. He should say 'no'.

"Nijimura-san," Akashi's voice enquires softly, almost hesitant. He should really say 'no'.

He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable, his heartbeat racing, his palms clammy. Say no. Say no. Say no, he screams to himself desperately; a sliver of self-preservation still functioning in his brain. "Yeah, sure. Drinks would be great. Saturday?"

Noooooooo! Logic yells from the corners of his mind.

"Saturday is perfect. I'll see you then." Akashi's words are breathy, as though he's letting out a sigh of relief with them. They make arrangements to meet at a quiet, yet trendy bar in the heart of Tokyo. After which, they say their farewells and hang up.

He sits at his workstation, staring at the lines of code on the screen while his heart rate mellows back to normal. Groaning, he slowly slumps until his head rests against the desk's surface with a satisfying thud.

What did I just do?

Saturday is... nice enough. They talk, they laugh, they drink. But, to be plainly honest, they have very little in common, so much so that there really isn't any reason for them to meet again. But, at the end of the night, as they wait outside the bar—a very nice place, by the way—for Akashi's cab, Shūzō spontaneously suggests that they come again to try the food. There's a kitchen, and apparently the foods legendary. Who doesn't like legendary food?

Akashi stares up at him for a while, face stoic and unreadable, but his eyes. His eyes light up a little in the dim glow of the street lamps. He smiles, small and peculiar, and suggests that they meet up again the following Saturday. Shūzō agrees, against his better judgement.

For the next two months or so, they see each other almost every Saturday evening. This has him dodging Tatsuya's speculative glares and unending questions on a regular basis. Shūzō doesn't learn much about Akashi, really. Only that the redhead likes basketball and Japanese literature, goes horseback riding when he wants to escape from the pressure of being born an Akashi, has an odd group of friends, and that he'd insisted on getting his own place for the duration of his university studies. It isn't much, but it isn't as though Shūzō is gushing to the other about his own life.

He suspects that this superficial relationship—it isn't a friendship, really—is just a cover up for the underlying tension that's been there, possibly, since the beginning. Sprouting and growing with every meeting they have, every phone call they make to each other, every look, every accidental touch. There's definitely attraction there; deep, almost tangible, and kind of longing. And maybe they've created this farce of a friendship to justify the inevitable. Shūzō's never been comfortable with one-night-stands, and maybe Akashi is the same. Technically, if they fall into bed one of these days, it wouldn't be one of those random hookups with a stranger you met in a bar one night. (Appearances, you see).

Or maybe Shūzō simply won't admit to himself that Akashi—this furtively engaging, disgustingly privileged, unbearably beautiful boy—has wormed his way under Shūzō's skin. Well and truly. And maybe he fears that if they just do it, all that tension will be revealed for what it truly is: attraction between two strangers that could never make a real relationship work. It's a conflicting situation, Shūzō surmises. One he tries not to think about too deeply.

He's caught off guard, then, when he gets a call from Akashi on Friday afternoon, asking if he wants to grab dinner. This is out of the their usual routine, so it takes a second for Shūzō to wrap his mind around it, figure out what to make of the invitation.

"Um... sure," he replies after a moment's hesitation. "But I'm not keen on eating out today. Is it all right if we go to my place?"

There's silence on the line, which is surprising considering that Akashi seems to have a response for everything. Shūzō wonders if he's maybe said something wrong. Is two months not long enough for him to invite the redhead to his place?

"That's fine," Akashi says softly, as though he's far away, and Shūzō feels as though he's missed something. Even so, he gives Akashi directions to his place and complains when the redhead declares that he'll bring the food because he made the invitation. High society manners, he concludes. The rest of the day is spent, rather unproductively, thinking about what Akashi's silence meant, and whether his crockery would be up to standard for his... guest. His mom had bought him a complete set of dining things that he only used when important people came over. That is to say, never. Maybe he should break it out to impress Akashi.

He almost loses himself in the stream of his thoughts, and apparently it shows, so much so that Haizaki tries his luck by attempting to leave early even though he's on mandatory overtime for the next three weeks because of his slacking off. Sometimes he wonder how this apathetic guy even got a job at the company. Sure, they weren't the biggest company, but they were one of the best in the business. And while Haizaki had a gift—as it were—for systems development, he lacked the drive for... anything. As such, it had become Shūzō's responsibility to keep him in check.

He pushes Akashi and all things relating to the redhead to the back of his mind.

After work, he rushes home to tidy things up, aerate his apartment and pull out the good dinner plates, all whilst chiding himself for being so unnerved by a kid almost six years his junior.

When Akashi arrives, they hardly talk, but the silence is surprisingly easy. Comfortable, even, despite the unwanted flutters in his stomach. They eat their meal— authentic, and expensive, Thai curry—while making small talk about the events that occurred during the week. Shūzō teases Akashi's inability to stomach strongly spiced foods, preferring the subtler and milder flavours of Japanese cuisine. The redhead glares at him in that brilliantly authoritative way that Shūzō believes all Akashi's are either born with or forced to master. After dinner, he dumps the plates and things into the sink, shrugging at Akashi's slightly scandalised expression, more enthralled with the idea of educating Akashi on the marvels of movies.

"I prefer the theatre," Akashi had told him once. And he'd replied with a of course you do stare. Seeing as how they were at his apartment, which housed his rather extensive film collection, he decides that now was as good a time as any to school the redhead. Or, at the very least, it's a legitimate excuse to keep Akashi in his apartment just a little bit longer.

They migrate to the living room area, where Shūzō, after changing into more comfortable clothing, opts to sit on the floor stretching his legs under the kotatsu. The movie is a locally produced, psychological thriller about a mother who's out to avenge her daughter's death. About five minutes in, Akashi moves to sit next to Shūzō on the floor. Their sides are touching as a matter of consequence, but his heart begins to thunder in his chest. He's almost certain the redhead can hear it.

A while later, and he's completely lost the plot of the movie, so enamoured is he by the woody base notes of Akashi's cologne—undeniably masculine, far too mature for a kid his age. He leans in unwittingly, and startles under the weight of the redhead's gaze. There's a moment then, Shūzō thinks. Heavy and significant, it feels as though all the air in the room has been sucked up by some invisible force. Like standing on the edge of a precipice.

Shūzō leans in further, movie and rationale long forgotten, and he's relieved almost when Akashi does the same to meet him halfway.

The kiss is soft and slow, surprising since it feels as though all their interactions have been leading up to this moment. The angle is uncomfortable, can't be maintained for very long, but the redhead's two steps ahead, manoeuvring himself around to straddle Shūzō's lap without breaking the kiss. Shūzō's impressed, despite his mind rushing through all the things that are wrong and potentially damaging about what's happening. What he's allowing to happen.

Akashi tastes of lemongrass and possibility. Like all the things he shouldn't have, but really, really wants in that moment. The moment that seems to drag over unbearably long seconds.

His breath is too ragged in the almost-silence when they pull apart. Akashi's staring at him from under his lashes, as red as his hair. There's a rosy tint to his cheeks, his lips parted and wet, his breath hot against Shūzō's chin. I should send you home, is what he rationalises. Send him home and forget.

"Nijimura-san," Akashi whispers, and a decision is made. A bad one, albeit, but he doesn't care. Can't, really, when the redhead kisses him, fingers raking into his hair, then tugging. His own hands are restless, moving of their own volition. Grazing, tugging, feeling, touching—

Oh god, he's so fucked.